Wayward
by Devil Piglet
Summary: The New York Slayer turns up in Sunnydale, and seeks out our favorite blond vampire. (Hint: It's not Harmony.)
1. Eve

Title: Wayward  
Author: Devil Piglet  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.  
Author's Notes: Set very loosely after 'Get It Done.'  
Feedback: Reviews are welcome: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

***************************************

Part 1: Eve

It was a night for possibilities. 

A year ago, or two or ten, Spike would have been the possibility. The monster just beyond the yellow glow of a streetlamp; grinning death at the end of a deserted alleyway. 

But tonight, this night, the possibilities lay ahead of him. 

About twenty paces ahead, as a matter of fact. The possibilities chattered and giggled, their high-pitched squeals piercing the otherwise still air. The possibilities occasionally risked glances backward – coquettish or scared or plainly suspicious – which he met with studied neutrality. The possibilities smelled of movie theater popcorn and girlhood. 

He didn't know what to make of the fact that Buffy had entrusted the Slayers-in-training to his care, and his alone, even for just a few hours. Most likely she'd simply rebelled at their choice of cinematic diversion. Perhaps the idea of William the Bloody, Chaperone of Annoying Adolescents had amused her. Maybe she just wanted to reclaim her bathroom. 

Didn't matter, really. She'd asked him to take them out, and he'd done it. Willow had been apprehensive at the request, Xander tight with anger, Giles unhappy and Dawn – Dawn's righteous fury had not abated, and she walked away from the scene with a coldness that chilled him yet. 

They turned on to Revello and Spike could see the age-softened lines of the Summers home. Finally. He'd be glad to turn the girls over to whichever responsible adult was currently couch-surfing, and retire to his basement. It was dark, musty and filled with random junk. Like his crypt, with a clothesline. 

Ahead of him, Vi and Molly were bickering. What else was new? Pouting, Vi enlisted him in the debate. 

"Spike, do you think she's right?" 

"What's that, pet?" Please, if he had to referee another catfight over Orlando bloody Bloom, he'd set himself on fire. 

"Do you think Jennifer Garner could be a Slayer? Elektra kicks all kinds of ass, and then on 'Alias' she gets to wear all that leather…" 

"She probably has sixteen personal trainers and meals delivered to her doorstep _plus_ she's married to Noel from 'Felicity," Molly argued. "Anybody could be a Slayer with a sweet deal like that." 

He found himself smiling. Happened at the oddest of times. He was shaking his head, looking past them into the shadows beyond, when he saw her. _Her._

The New York Slayer.

In an instant, his world was replaced by the stink of the city, the ruthless clang of steel on steel, the grating light of a subway car. 

_Flatbush Avenue__. End of the line. _

Half-shielded by a tree on the neighbors' lawn, she watched him hungrily. Hatred poured off her in waves -- rage and contempt and, underneath it all, the first stirrings of protective instinct toward the girls. He recognized the intent in her eyes, the ancient memory and new awareness that she would risk herself to save the humans she saw in his midst. 

She – it – was the predator, though. Because it couldn't really be her. No goddamn way. She was edging away from the tree now; slow and focused on him. He remembered the way the strong arch of her jaw felt, under his bruising fingers. 

The girls dawdled in front of the house. "Spike! Are you coming in?" 

Rona hopped down the porch steps. "Is there something out there? Is it a demon?" 

"Go on inside, now," he told them, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I'll come up in a bit." 

Rona stared at him, clearly unconvinced. 

"Go on," he snapped. "Tell Buffy to lock up tight." 

"But –" 

"Now," he growled. Rona's eyes narrowed but she herded the rest of them inside. When the door shut and the latch slid into place, he turned. 

She stood before him now as beautiful as she'd been twenty-five years ago. 

Tall and regal, retaining that air of haughtiness that he'd somehow always admired. Nikki had been a street fighter, no doubt about it – just about the best – but she still managed to suggest that tangling with an enemy such as Spike was an affront to her considerable dignity. 

"You're The First," he said. 

She smiled unsteadily, even white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "First what?" she asked. 

She leapt across the space that separated them and dropped him with a kick to the solar plexus. 

Before he could struggle to sit up she was straddling him in a reversal of their last, fatal pose. 

So much for his theory – whatever she was, incorporeal she certainly wasn't. The body above his strummed with life and nerves and fierce tension. 

Spike could see that she was shaking slightly, that her limbs and face shone with sweat. "I didn't know," she said hoarsely. "Why I came back. What I was meant for." She produced a wicked knife – from where, Spike didn't know – and swiftly, almost absently buried it in his shoulder. He roared in pain. 

"Then I saw you. And I realized what I was doing here." 

She twisted the knife so that he hissed. The sound of metal scraping against bone reached his sensitive ears. 

She was magnificent; but then, he'd always thought so. Crouched above him, feral grace in each efficient movement of her body. But something was off. Something besides the fact that she'd been dead for years. 

Fever. Her skin burned with it and heated his at the contact. She smelled of sickness. 

Her trembling intensified as her arms pinned him to the ground. It wasn't a matter of exertion; restraining him should have been a simple task. Dead she'd been, oh hell yeah, and death still wasn't far off. It slunk around the edges of her being, nipped at her feet and made her stumble. 

_Death is on your heels, baby._

She knew, too. Her slippery fingers gripped his shirt like a lifeline; her gaze betrayed the beginnings of panic. 

"I'm going to kill you," she said, but there was a plaintive note in her voice. _I'm going to kill you – aren't I? Don't let me die again before I kill you._

"Nikki," he whispered. 

Her eyes began to glaze over. Fuck, she was slipping away. "Nikki!" Louder this time, insistent. 

"Don't say my name," she murmured. She withdrew the knife from his shoulder and pressed the blade against his throat. He felt the pressure start, the first thin layer of flesh breaking open. But her hands wavered with the effort; she was weak. Christ, at this rate it would take her a fortnight to finish him off. 

Or not. Abruptly her hold on him loosened, the knife dropping to the dewy grass beside him with a soft _thud_. He felt the pressure of her weight as she slumped forward. 

He slid out from underneath her and caught her up in his arms. Tremors wracked her frame now, apparently beyond her control. What the hell? He risked a glance down, expecting to see that she had succumbed to unconsciousness. Instead, those furious black eyes stared fixedly into his. 

He swallowed, looking away. There was a brief, fluttering struggle as he lifted her, but she collapsed against him almost immediately. God, this was not how he remembered her. In his mind she was ferocious and lush, with a belligerence that matched his own. Now – well, clearly whatever brought her back had banged her around on the journey. Understandable; look at how Buffy had been buggered by her return trip. 

A new thought struck him and he nearly faltered. Was that what this was? Another heaven-bound Slayer, tossed back into the sea of life? This was all wrong; this whole thing reeked of dark mojo, the stuff Willow'd been seduced by last year. Had she conjured Nikki up, in some misguided attempt to supercharge their slaying power? Doubtful. They were fucking surrounded by Slayer-wannabes; calling up another would be beyond useless and verging on masochistic. 

He was at the front door of the house before he realized it. She'd been unaccountably light in his arms, even though they were just about the same size. He was about to kick open the door when Molly yanked it ajar, her pinched and worried face peering around the edge of the jamb. 

"Oh, my God! You killed someone!" 

"Buffy!" Rona shouted. "Spike's brought a body home!" 

"Tell him to bury it in the backyard with the rest," Xander called from the kitchen. "Remember, animals think that this sort of thing is a gift. Like laying a dead rat at your feet." Xander sauntered into the living room as he spoke. 

"Shut it," Spike said harshly. "Can't you see she's ill?" 

The commotion brought Giles down the stairs, followed reluctantly by Chao-An. "Would it be possible to go one evening without a crisis or shouting match?" he demanded tiredly. Glimpsing the scene in the living room, Chao-An simply dropped to the bottom step and put her head in her hands. 

Xander frowned. Moving forward, he helped Spike carry Nikki to the couch. "Jeez, Spike. What did you to do her?" 

"Not a bloody thing! Hello – all souled up, remember?" 

"What I remember is soul-vamp cold-cocking me and going out on a murderous rampage not two months ago!" 

"Boys, boys." Buffy appeared at their side; Spike hadn't heard her approach. ""Keep flirting like that and people will think you miss being roommates." She knelt beside the couch. "Oh…." She pressed a small hand to the other woman's forehead, then jerked it back. "She's burning up. Spike, who is she?" 

"Slayer," he managed. Her eyes widened. 

"Another potential? I think we're going to wear out our welcome at Costco. We don't even have any sleeping bags left." 

"No, she's –" he began, then stopped. 

"Where did she come from?" 

"Out front," Rona piped up. "She was outside when we came home, and then Spike sent us inside, and he got her and brought her here." 

Buffy pressed her fingers to her temples and shut her eyes briefly. "Okay. Every bedroom in the house is full up. I want to give her a bed, but I'm not about to have her sleeping in close quarters with the other girls without knowing what's wrong with her. The last thing we need is a dozen hormonal teenagers all suffering from the swine flu." 

"Buffy," Giles said carefully, "Perhaps keeping her at the house is not such a good idea. She's obviously unwell, and we are simply not equipped to provide any kind of extensive treatment. I'm loath to admit it, but hospitalization may be the best course of action in the long run." 

"Believe me, I'm not jumping up and down at the idea of a new roommate either. But she came here -- _here_ – for sanctuary. This is the only place she'll get it, Giles. No hospital in the world will be safe once the Bringers realize she exists." 

"We are bound to consider the well-being of the group as a whole –" 

"She can stay in the basement," Spike broke in. Several heads turned to stare at him. 

"It's got the cot," he went on. "And the girls know not to come down there. I'll bunk in the crawlspace above the hall." At Buffy's incredulous look, he shrugged. "Had my eye on it for a while, if you must know. Looks quite cozy." 

Giles' lips curled into what was most definitely not a smile. "That is, of course, a…generous offer, Spike. However, the problem remains that she may require constant care. We know nothing about her condition nor –" 

Spike was no longer listening. He lifted her again into his arms, felt her stiffen at the contact. He wished she would just pass out already but no, her eyes remained open, locked on his. She was seething but powerless and Spike knew he'd be paying for it later. 

Amanda propped the basement door open and he took the stairs with caution, mindful of his cargo. Still each step jarred her and when his gaze accidentally dropped to her face he could see pain written across it in bold and jagged lines. 

When he reached the cot he laid her down gently on the mussed sheets. The gesture seemed so lover-like that he winced. 

If Nikki had similar thoughts, she gave no indication. Spike stepped away from her quickly and retreated to the far side o f the room, while Giles crouched beside her. 

"Her breathing is shallow, but regular," he observed quietly. "She appears alert." _No question, mate. _"Our recourse may be as basic as bringing her fever down, hydtrating her and hoping for the best." He sat back on his heels. "As relatively simple as that sounds, I don't relish the idea of anyone in the house contracting her illness. For all we know, this is some elaborate plot by The First to weaken our forces." 

Spike made a sound of disgust. Giles turned to him angrily but Xander spoke first. "Did I just hear you volunteer your services, Junior?" 

Spike gaped at him. "What?" 

"We keep hearing about your shiny new soul. Why don't you show it off for us?" 

"Xander, you're shouting," Buffy said. "What do you want him to do?" 

"I want him to put his conscience where his mouth is. I'm supposed to believe he's one of the good guys, but I don't see him pulling his weight. You keep saying how you're carrying us? We're carrying him." 

"That's not what I –" 

"Forget it," Spike broke in. "Just put it out of your head. I'm not playing nursemaid for this – for her. It's not right." 

Buffy's eyes widened appraisingly. "Ooo-kay. Why, exactly?" 

Idiot. She'd been prepared to see him through this until he opened his mouth. Now she was piqued. You'd think after all this time he'd learn – 

Giles braced his hands on his knees and stood. "Xander does have a point, Buffy. Spike is the only one among us who will remain immune to contagion. However, I hardly consider him an ideal caretaker." 

Spike couldn't look at him, couldn't even look in the direction of the cot and its new occupant. "Watcher's right. I'd be no good." 

Her forehead displayed the telltale crease that told him she was turning something over in her mind. "Spike, you could help her. I mean…you could." And then her face lifted to his, gaze filled with that strange combination of wistfulness and tempered hope and determination. 

_I believe in you, Spike._

She was waiting for him. Waiting to see what he would choose. He tried to tell her that she was wrong, that doing this would not be a kindness to anyone, least of all the silent woman on the bed. But he couldn't refuse her. Could he? Not when she'd stuck by him, after all that he'd put her through. Hell, all that he'd put her through just since he'd staggered back from Africa, soul in tow. She'd stood up for him. To her friends and her father figure and to the evil from which she'd retrieved him. 

Weak, he was. Not strong enough to shut her down. 

He affected nonchalance. "Whatever you want, love." _Always._

She went to kneel again at Nikki's side. "I'm Buffy," she said softly. "The Slayer. And this -- this is Spike. He's going to stay with you, until you get better. Which will be soon. Um, I hope. I'm sure! You'll be back to your old self – whoever that may be – in no time." 

Nikki's breath came in short little spurts, but her eyes assessed Buffy with a calculation that Spike recalled well. He found himself wondering what she made of her hostess. 

Buffy took Nikki's hand, gave it a brief squeeze. "We'll let you rest now. You're safe here, okay? This house is protected. You were right to come here." 

All the niceties and the sweet-talking and the can-I-get-you-anything made Spike want to crawl out of his own skin. This was fucking obscene, was what it was. 

Buffy rose and joined Giles a few feet away. "I need to get back upstairs before the girls go 'Lord of the Flies' on me. Guys, I don't think our guest needs an audience." She arched an eyebrow pointedly and Giles straightened. 

"Of course. Xander?" 

Xander smirked once at Spike, then stuck his hands in his front pockets and followed Buffy and Giles up the steps, whistling under his breath. The sound of the basement door closing echoed hollowly. 

He kept to the shadows of the far wall. Couldn't bear to face her yet, and surely she didn't want him anywhere near her. So he busied himself with useless tidying although he could feel her eyes on him every moment. 

"Haven't kept the place up properly," Spike said. "Don't entertain much. Hope you're comfortable. Got a sink with fresh water –" he nodded jerkily – "and a jerry-rigged bathroom, thanks to the carpenter. Smarter than he looks, I suppose." 

He kept up a steady stream of babble, desperate for distraction, until he heard a soft sigh from the other side of the room. He risked a glance over and saw her eyes drifting shut. 

Relief and shame overwhelmed him. When he was sure she was unconscious, he gathered up the items he'd stashed, and prepared to settle in for the night. 

*************************************** 

The sheets smelled of him. 

She wasn't sure how she knew; they were clean and fresh and cool against her skin. But he was all over -- in her nostrils, against her eyelids. He was here now. 

Across the room, she saw the orange glow from a cigarette filter. He sat, she knew, at the bottom of the steps. Watching her. Waiting. For what? She wondered if it amused him, that they gave her care over to a monster. She wondered what he planned for the others, wondered when he would pounce and rend and tear. Her vision caught the edges of a familiar shape. With an effort, she turned and looked down at the floor next to her. 

There, laid out beside the cot, was a collection of stakes. Not hers; these were different wood, different sizes. But they would certainly serve her purpose. And at the end of the row was her knife. His blood still gleamed on the blade. 

She looked up again, to the cigarette's solitary flicker. Reaching down, she wrapped her fingers around his offering.


	2. Replacement Killers

Title: Wayward  
Author: Devil Piglet  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.  
Author's Notes: Set very loosely after 'Get It Done.'  
Feedback: Reviews are welcome: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

  
Part 2: Replacement Killers  
  
She was awake. Spike wasn't sure how he felt about that.  
  
She'd slept fitfully for a couple of hours, thrashing and moaning occasionally. When she calmed down he took the opportunity to approach her, a washcloth damp with cool water in his hand. He bathed her forehead, face, the bit of her neck that was exposed – careful, so careful not to let his skin brush hers. Wouldn't be right.  
  
After he finished he retreated back to his perch on the bottom step, lit another cigarette as she sighed and shifted.  
  
He'd managed to bring down the fever a bit, but he still had no idea what was wrong with her or how much of the original Nikki remained in this shell. Did it matter? He'd hardly be able take her down even if she had…come back wrong. Send her away, instead, if it came to that.  
  
What was she _doing_ here, anyway? Buffy'd come to life right where they'd left her, and hers was the only other Slayer resurrection he had to go by. But there was no way Nikki had gotten from New York to California in the state she was in. The panic and impotence and rage he'd sensed from her were reminiscent of a fledgling vamp. She couldn't have been around very long.  
  
She still wore the same clothes he'd killed her in.  
  
Abruptly, her eyes had shot open and scanned the room until they landed on him. Bloody Slayers. He knew they couldn't see in the dark but this one gave a good imitation of it. Seemed like she could see right to the empty core of him, in fact.  
  
Bloody Slayers.  
  
For the past few minutes she'd been holding her blade to her chest like it was some kind of talisman. For all he knew, it was.  
  
Lovely piece, all curved and deadly. The knife, too.  
  
He walked across the room, stopping a few feet from where she lay. She didn't flinch – not Nikki, wouldn't give him the satisfaction – but he noticed as she went rigid and watchful before him.  
  
"Water." He said it casually, and extended the bottle towards her. The glare that earned him was disbelieving and venomous.  
  
He pursed his lips. "Haven't tampered with it, if that's what you're worried about. Go on, take a look."  
  
She ignored him, pointedly bringing the knife higher and turning her face to the wall.  
  
"You're dehydrated," he told her roughly. Sudden and surprising desperation made him harsher than he intended. "You need to drink something or you'll just make yourself sicker. You got that?"  
  
Of course she _got _it; Nikki hadn't been stupid when they'd first met and he had no reason to think that her current incarnation would be any different. In that respect, at least.  
  
He studied her as he had all night. Sensing his scrutiny, she slowly turned back to him and met his gaze.  
  
"Who are you?" he murmured.  
  
When she spoke, her voice was raspy and strained. "You know who I am, _vampire_."  
  
"Found your tongue again, have you? Good. We're going to have a little talk, you and me."  
  
"Go to hell."  
  
"Tonight I spent two hours surrounded by a dozen teenage girls watching Ben Affleck in a pair of red tights. I'd say hell has come to me."  
  
She laughed, a tinny death rattle. "So I should feel sorry for you."  
  
"Sweetness, you have no idea." He took her free hand in his and wrapped it around the water bottle. She struggled to pull away and made a decent try of it, but illness had ebbed that fabled strength.  
  
"You met the Slayer. The latest one, that is. Buffy. She's my girl." Oh, that got her attention. "Quite fond of me, she is. Hates it when anyone puts holes in her pet vampire." He nodded to his shoulder, where the wound she inflicted had gone unnoticed by the others.  
  
"What do you think she'll do, if I mention your violent tendencies? Got a houseful of humans to protect. She's not much for turning the other cheek, these days. Was never her strong suit to begin with." He held her hand in both of his now, inwardly marveling at the warm, solid _reality_ of her. Seemed incredible that she could be here, with him, pulse pounding double-time but stubborn and steady. He wasn't going to fuck this up; wasn't going to let her slip away now that she'd returned.  
  
Hubris, to think that he'd gotten some sort of second chance. But here she was, all but handed to him.  
  
And none too happy about it, either. He gave her fingers a squeeze and was rewarded with a look of pure loathing. "All I have to do is go upstairs, and tell them that you're dangerous. Unstable. Hell, I could tell them the truth – that last time I checked, you were as dead as me."  
  
"Gonna tell them how I got that way?"  
  
He forced a smile. "Don't think the subject will come up."  
  
"What have you done to them? To make them trust you?" He heard the genuine curiosity behind her question.  
  
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Doesn't matter now, does it? You're stuck with me, unless you want to try your luck out there." He jerked his head toward the grimy corner window. "How long do you figure you'll last out there, in your…condition? A day? Maybe two, if you stick to the shadows but in Sunnydale, that's really not the best strategy. All sorts of nasties lurking about."  
  
Nikki raised her chin. "I," she said slowly, "am the Slayer."  
  
God, she was glorious. And he didn't want to have this conversation with her. He released her hand and she backed up, away from him.  
  
"Nikki –"  
  
"I told you not to say my name!"  
  
Stupid to allow that to hurt him, or to expect anything else. His good – well, less-than-evil – intentions had always been met with suspicion from Buffy and her little crew, and they were as receptive an audience as he could hope for. Nikki…she was the one person who would never, _never_ trust him.  
  
He nodded. "Right." He took a few steps back, leaned against the old metal shelving that held a dusty collection of _National Geographic_ magazines and assorted canned goods. "What's the first thing you remember?"  
  
***************************************  
  
She hated how he watched her. He had no right. His very presence was a violation. And now he wanted her to confide in him?  
  
This was all too cruel – being held prisoner in this house, with him as her warden; the creeping, insidious litany in her brain that _something's not right, something's not right here_; the reluctance of her enervated body to attack and defend even as he stood not five feet away. How long would it be, Nikki wondered, before she could kill him?  
  
Except…he'd kept her secret. Knew somehow that it was what she needed right now; that she couldn't give that part up until she'd figured it out for herself. And he was right – she would be seen as a threat. Understood. She hadn't looked too kindly on dead people, in her day.  
  
In her day…  
  
"What year is it?" she asked. Dreading the answer.  
  
Thankfully, he didn't play at sympathy or surprise. "Two thousand and three."  
  
She'd…known, that time had passed. Felt it in her gut when she first opened her eyes. But his words pierced her somewhere, deep and low. _So long, so long…my sweet boy..._  
  
She shook her head slightly, ignored how the vampire's eyes narrowed. She couldn't go there, couldn't let those thoughts enter her head. If he even suspected she had a child – No. She'd kept him secret and safe before and she would do it again.  
  
"How long have you been here?" he asked.  
  
"Three days. Maybe longer."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
_Furious inhuman howls, and above that the chant of droning voices. Rushing, fetid wind that carries her thorugh darkness. Every cell in her body wants to resist but she can't move, can't open her eyes. All she can do is taste the dirt in mouth._  
  
She fixed her gaze on the floor. "Don't know. Woke up, saw a bunch of guys standing around. They tried to put their hands on me and I showed them that wasn't a nice way to treat a lady." Her companion smiled faintly. "They almost had me, though. Didn't think they'd fight that well with their eyes sewn shut."  
  
That seemed to jar him; the cigarette trembled in his fingers briefly. It pleased her.  
  
"Spike, isn't it?" she said with stomach-turning sweetness. "You introduced yourself that night."  
  
The trembling intensified, though she couldn't imagine why. She waited for him to gloat over their last encounter, to taunt her seductively until she couldn't bear another word.  
  
But all he said was, "You need to eat something."  
  
He disappeared upstairs and she slumped forward, angry at how five minutes of talking had drained her so completely. By the time he came back down, carrying a plate, she was half-drifting.  
  
She heard the scrape of porcelain against concrete as he set the plate down. "Cheeseburger and something called 'tater tots'," he was saying, but his voice was far away. "Can't believe I even have to say those words, but if we had pizza one more night there was going to be a mutiny…"  
  
She closed her eyes. Lost to slumber, the knife clattered out of her grasp and onto the floor.  
  
She woke briefly when dawn filtered through the window. Saw him sitting on the bottom step, reading a book. And saw her knife replaced, with deliberate care, next to the stakes that were lined up beside her bed.  
  



	3. Ripening

Title: Wayward  
Author: Devil Piglet  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.  
Author's Notes: Set very loosely after 'Get It Done.'  
Feedback: Reviews are welcome: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

*************************************** 

Part 3: Ripening

"Eat it," Spike said, not for the first time. 

Nikki looked him up and down contemptuously. "_You_ eat it," she answered. Her meaning was clear. 

"Cute. Look, it's been three days -- you said so yourself. You want to get better, don't you? Well enough to stake me good and proper? Then be a good little Slayer and eat the fucking food." His words were harsh but his voice was pleading. 

She fidgeted, halfheartedly stifling a yawn. Sleep was tricky but terribly tempting, a time when her most private love emerged unchecked. 

_A solemn little boy who rode on her shoulders when she walked through the apartment. An alarm clock of childish giggles. His squeals when she took him to the __Bronx__ Zoo on his third birthday._

She pushed the memories away and looked again at the tray he held. A turkey sandwich, liberally padded with lettuce and tomato. Meat was expensive, after all, and from the sounds that occasionally drifted downward, there seemed to be a rampaging troop of Girl Scouts in residence. 

Nikki eyed the sandwich again. White bread. _Of course._

The plain and somewhat unnerving truth was, she didn't want to eat. She couldn't say why she'd pushed away all the food he'd brought her – well, besides the fact that it came from him. 

The vampire was right about one thing, though. If she kept on like this she'd never recover. Each hour sapped her strength a bit more, and her strength was the one thing she'd always taken for granted. To be weak – and in _his_ presence, no less – was making her crazy. 

"Leave it," she said imperiously. "I'll have some later." 

"Now." 

"The company I'm in is ruining my appetite." 

She waited for him to slam the tray down and stalk off. Instead he nodded, placed the tray beside her and left, all without a word. She watched him take the stairs two at a time, and then heard the door softly click shut. 

She remembered him being more arrogant. Cocky. Someone had taken him down a notch or two, that was for certain. She wished it could have been her. 

The night before, when she'd first recognized him – she hated, _hated_ that she'd felt a bolt of fear, however brief. He'd spend the rest of his damned life paying for that moment. 

Rage had overtaken her quickly enough – he'd been surrounded by giggling, chirping girls. She didn't know how he'd kill them all. Didn't care, either. He wouldn't get the chance. 

She'd followed him, discreetly, but she was so tired and shaky it was hard to keep up. Fortunately their bizarre little procession was also a slow one and she'd tracked them…here. To this comfortable suburban house with its beaming porch light and slightly overgrown lawn. It was all so _normal_, and when she found herself thinking that the aging, tree-lined street reminded her of her childhood in Park Slope she'd wanted to scream, to tear things. She settled for him. 

She was disgusted with herself for failing, ashamed of this unfamiliar frailty that leadened her limbs and caused the world to swim before her. His death would have been a joy to her, his blood sweet on her tongue. 

_Okay, that was…unpleasant_, Nikki thought. She wrenched her mind from those rather unwelcome images and checked out her lunch again. It hadn't become any more appetizing in the last few minutes. She unenthusiastically picked up one half of the sandwich and took a bite. 

*************************************** 

"Would you care to update us on our newest arrival?" 

"Here's an update. Her name is Nikki. Use it." Spike opened the microwave and removed a mug of blood. He took an appreciative sip and settled at the kitchen table. "Spike…" 

"She's in a bad way," Spike answered shortly. Lighting a cigarette, he inhaled deeply. "Got the shakes, thinner than she was when I hauled her in here." He idly passed the flame of the Zippo back and forth beneath his fingertips as he spoke. "Left her with some food, don't know what I'll do if she doesn't eat it. She's got a fever that won't quit. Had a hell of a time bringing it down last night." 

Xander smirked. "Check out Nurse Nancy." 

Spike didn't look up. "Come over here and I'll show you who's a nancy."

 "Enough. Both of you." Giles removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"Buffy around?" Spike asked casually. 

"Buffy's whereabouts, Spike, are none of your concern. Buffy herself is none of your concern. If I have even the slightest suspicion that your obsession with her is re-awakening, I will not hesitate to act. Is that absolutely clear?" 

"Fine talk from the man who walked out on her." 

"That's not --!" Giles looked to Xander for support, but the other man bit his lip and looked away. 

"I got plenty to keep me up nights, yeah? Got a nice litany of sins to recite before I lay me down to sleep. But I didn't go to deepest Africa and get a fucking soul shoved up my ass to hear you tell me I'm not fit company for her. Seems to me like I'm the only one who fought for her, the only one had the stones to help her live her sad, short, _miserable_ excuse for a life. And I'm not going anywhere. Not yet. I'm not the same as before. I've changed." 

"Into a needy, unpredictable liability. Your existence has been a series of dangerous and destructive episodes, and you have already become a drain. On Buffy, and on all of us." 

"What a load of bollocks. I've helped her, more than any of you!" 

"You've damaged her, more than any of us. We only allow you to remain here as a concession to Buffy. Don't forget that, Spike." 

Taking a long swallow from the mug, he grinned faintly. "Yeah, you're full up with the milk of human kindness." He pushed back his chair and stood. "Gotta go check on my patient." 

*************************************** 

Dimly she heard the door to the basement slam, the trudge of heavy boots on the steps. Then she was overtaken by more convulsions. The footsteps stopped, then she heard a soft rush of air as he leaped down the rest of the stairway. 

"Fuck, fuck, Nikki…" 

She tried to speak, to tell him _don't say my name_. Instead more dry and desperate gasps escaped. Her eyes stung with tears. 

He came up behind her, grabbed her up in his arms. She couldn't stop retching though she had emptied her stomach long ago. As she flailed blindly he caught her arms and pinned them to her sides. 

He was pressed up against her now, her back to his front, and somehow his absence of breathing calmed her own. She sucked in air, waited for it to cool the taste of sick that surrounded her. Her body was still wracked with spasms but that seemed a very distant fact; unimportant when weighed against the stench of bile and sticky, oppressive way her clothes clung to her. 

"What happened?" she heard him asking, from far away. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp but merely succeeded in loosening his hold. 

"Ask the chef." 

She felt the muscles of his chest bunch as he tensed. "Was nothing wrong with that meal. We did a shop two days ago; everything's fresh." When she didn't respond he added, "Haven't touched it myself. Knew you wouldn't want that." 

"Uh-huh." She was inclined to blame this on him – her mother used to laugh about Nikki's cast-iron stomach and she hadn't sicked up a meal since that fried rock shrimp at Astroland – but instinct told her otherwise. 

She knew he planned to kill her. It was his nature. And she saw death, dancing in his eyes. 

Still, poisoned sandwiches didn't seem like his style. Not nearly so dramatic or satisfying as – 

_Blood coats her arms, her legs; broken bodies lie in her wake and she feels the grin split her face. She's slick and slippery, dripping in scarlet and she throws her head back and she laughs, laughs, laughs at the roiling sky._

"Wash," she managed. "Want to wash up. God, I have to, have to…" She began yanking at the fabric of her damp shirt, frustrated at her own impotence. 

"Past time we got you out of those clothes, although I wasn't quite sure how to bring up the subject –" But she was already scrambling away, toward the cheap little bathroom in the corner. 

"Bloody – Just wait a minute, will you? Just wait." He caught her up in his arms again and half-carried, half-dragged her to the hollowed-out nook beyond the stairwell. A thin sheet hung across the makeshift doorway, affording the barest modicum of privacy. Inside there was a new toilet, an old, chipped sink and a rusty showerhead. Bathing on a budget. 

She was deposited unceremoniously on the intermittently tiled floor as he reached across, twisted the faucet. The showerhead sputtered and came to life. 

"It's going to be cold," he warned her. 

"Yes," she mumbled. "Cold." Another moment, and her flesh might blister and break open. 

"Right, then. In we go." He lifted her inside. 

She collapsed under the spray, let the water stream down her face, past her lips. Cradled in the vee of his legs, while he tipped his head back to rest against the wall behind them. He cussed, almost too low for her to hear above the shower. She felt him smooth the hair back from her face, maneuver her slack limbs. She closed her eyes. 

*************************************** 

Spike sat on the floor, slumped against the ungiving metal of the cot. She was sleeping now; small favors and all that. The way he'd been able to take her back to bed, tuck her in without a protest worried Spike as much as her more obvious symptoms. She was getting worse, slipping through his fingers and he couldn't stop it. Couldn't fix it, even as he listened to her shallow, pained breathing above him. 

He felt the persistent pang of hunger in his belly. When had he last eaten? Seemed like months. Everything before she came was fuzzy and indistinct; sepia-toned images of an old home movie. She was his cause now, his goal. Here in their basement, where sunlight shied away and time stopped moving. 

He stared at his abandoned mug of blood a few feet away, kicked at it with his foot. It teetered on the hard floor and a crack appeared in the mauve glazing, but it remained upright. He dropped his head into his hands. 

*************************************** 

Screaming. Hoarse, demented yowls as he struggled back to consciousness. _Buffy, I'm sorry, my heart, didn't mean it, would never….just wanted to…_A solid punch to his jaw and he awoke with a start. 

Nikki straddled him, wild-eyed and raging. She held a stake in her raised right hand; her left pummeled him mercilessly. 

"_What did you do to me?_" she cried. "Son of a bitch, what have you done? _What am I?_" 

He blinked up at her, at a loss. Where had this energy come from? An hour ago she hadn't been able to stand up and now she was giving him one of the more respectable beatings of his unlife. 

Then he noticed her lips, smeared with crimson. The earthy, intoxicating scent of blood that wafted from her breath. 

Another blow, this time to his nose, and he took the opportunity to peer around her. His mug lay overturned on the concrete, nary a drop spilled. Empty. 

The next time her fist came down her grabbed it, forced it down. She was improved, certainly, but not at full strength just yet. Then the stake traveled downward at a speed that Spike found fairly alarming. He knocked it from her hand and encircled her wrists in his. 

"What am I?" she wailed. "What did you do? God, _what_…" 

He eased out from underneath her and she redoubled her efforts to attack. They struggled in silence for a while. Finally she stopped fighting him, lifted her hands to her face. Made an awful, awful sound when she pulled back and saw the blood on her fingertips. 

He recalled a century of Dru's fears and night terrors, the way she'd slice open her pretty pale flesh with the gold-plated scissors that he never hid well enough. 

"It's okay, sweet. It's all right. It's all fine. Tell me what you did, hmm? Did you have a bit of the blood I left? 'S that what happened?" 

She nodded wordlessly, her features contorted in a mask of despair and revulsion. For a terrifying moment he waited for her to shift into game face -- but the pulse at her wrist had pounded strong beneath his imprisoning hands. She was quick, bursting with life. 

"Why this? Why couldn't you just kill me? Anything but this…" 

"Hush, darling girl. We'll get it sorted in no time. Doesn't mean a thing, this. Come now, love." He tugged her forward, taking her face in his hands. 

_The bump and jostle of the tube car, his knees on either side of her.__ He bears down, and twists 'til he hears the crunch._

With his thumbs he wiped at her mouth until the stain of blood was gone. "See? All better. There, close your eyes. Rest now." He gathered her to his chest and she crumpled there bonelessly. For the first time, he noticed, that ebony silk-skin had a healthy, subtle warmth rather than blazing heat. Her fever was gone. 

She wept quietly against him while he rocked her. He murmured soothing, broken words in her ear and pressed the lightest, very lightest kisses to the top of her head. "There's a girl. I've got you, hear? Not going to let anything happen to you, not now. You're safe now. I've got you." 

And even as she sobbed out her despair he secretly rejoiced. Because she was no longer dying; life blazed inside her even as she wished the flame out. 

She was saved.


End file.
